


Cabin Fever

by ziegler



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Emily/Tracer, F/F, Romance, Sex, Widowtracer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 02:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11393733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziegler/pseuds/ziegler
Summary: Widowmaker and Amélie Lacroix are always learning to live with each other, but neither can work out how to live without Lena Oxton.





	Cabin Fever

**Author's Note:**

> It feels like it's been a long time since I wrote for Widowtracer (especially with the wonderful addition of canon Tracer/Emily!), so here's angstfest 2017 for them. I had quite a few requests to continue a story I did last year when Overwatch first came out called "Suspension" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/7247500) and you could view this as a semi-sequel!
> 
> feel free to follow me on mercyisgay @ tumblr! (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

“I don’t know.”

 “You don’t _know_?”

_I don’t know._

These were the first words that Widowmaker had expressed in disdain in quite some time.

“I don’t know why I can't shoot...my hand, it…seems to be refusing.”

The gravelly tone of Gabriel Reyes reached her ears, obscured only by his mask and the silvered claw he ran against his chin.

“Don’t go soft on us now, Widow. You’re losing your edge lately, you know.”

“...Be quiet. It is cold today.”

Reaper chuckled with a sardonic edge. Widowmaker frowned.

“Don’t you ’never’ feel the cold or something? Talon must have installed a temperature gauge in that head of yours the same way they made sure I -”

“ _Ferme la bouche,_ " Widowmaker bites back, with a twitch of her head. "This is not the time.”

She bit the inside of her cheek with displeasure, and swung her sniper rifle to rest up against her upper shoulder. Her amber eyes found great interest in the concrete beneath her feet as she walked to the tip of the ledge, and shot out her grapple hook to the nearest skyscraper – which were in abundance in this part of London, luckily for her – and pulled herself along up to the top.

Reaper became his usual shadow-esque self; teleporting his being up onto the same ledge; as they stood, dusting themselves off in the bitter November night.

“Let us return to base,” she stammered, looking around at nothing. “We tried to eliminate the target, and failed. Such a shame. ”

“Please don’t lump me with you. _You_ failed, _Amélie_.”

Widowmaker swings her sniper rifle back down into her arms, and presses it against where the skin of Reaper’s neck should have been.

“Don’t you ever call me that.” she snapped, and Reaper held up his hands in surrender.

“Did I touch the wrong nerve? My mistake.”

“Shut up. You had better be silent the rest of the way back if you value your life, _Gabriel_.”

Reaper paused, before he chuckled again as Widowmaker lowered her gun, and patted her on the tattoo of her open back.

“Luckily for me,” he began, still laughing, “I don’t.”

Widowmaker hits him with the back end of her gun lightly, and Reaper still remains amused as they leave.

-

On this particular day where Widowmaker finds her trigger finger locking and many a sarcastic remark from her co-worker in Reaper, Widowmaker notices three things, and on the way home, loses herself in nostalgic thought.

The first thing she notices is that she, uncharacteristically, is frozen by the wintry winds. She actually does feel the cold. Something has rattled her enough to get under her skin.

The second thing she notices is the aforementioned sensation that her finger immediately locked every time her scope hovered over the burning auburn hair of her target.

And the third thing that she notices, was that every time she looked upon Lena Oxton, though she could never quite get her mouth to pronounce those sequence of letters properly – she felt a horrid sensation that felt somewhat new to her.

Was this feeling jealousy? Of the redhead scientist in Lena Oxton’s arms, as she peered into their apartment through the lens of her scope?

The life of a sniper was often one that people widely regarded as lonely. That suited Widowmaker just fine. Being left alone was what she wanted virtually all the time – people were a nuisance, after all. The only things that mattered to her were the orders she got, the gun that she held, and being able to keep up the strong headcount she now boasted as Widowmaker.

But there were times where, despite that _Widowmaker_ wanted to be alone, Amélie Lacroix did not. 

There were days where she awoke with the same, unwelcome searing pain in her head, drawing a sharp gasp from her dark lips; pressing her hand to her forehead never got her anywhere, and the pain got to her on some days more than others. Those were days where she always longed to be in the arms of someone.

She could never fully remember _who_ at first. There was always a dull ache when she tried to remember the feeling, but all she could ever describe it as was warm and bright, like how she imagined sunlight felt in spring.

Widowmaker had been told, initially, that she had a husband. At first, her natural assumption of her wandering mind that it must have been him she was thinking of. But something, even then, did not feel right to her. Upon being ordered to eliminate her husband almost _moments_ after finding out, she had been sent to Poitiers to infiltrate their supposed summer home.

He was an easy target. He was a fool to sleep when under the watchful eye of Talon. But Widowmaker felt nothing at the warm, wet flecks of blood on her face after lodging a bullet in his skull. Her eyes flickered to avoid the splatter, but nothing more. It could not have possibly been him. Of this, she was sure.

And so, the search continued sporadically. She was more brainwashed android than human, but ever present was the small part of Amélie that resided somewhere within.

She had never been told about another. Perhaps Talon did not know of this lover though, she thought, and she tried her best to think about who it could possibly have been.

Had it been someone in Overwatch once more?

After many months of both searching and flitting in and out of personal thought, both Widowmaker and Amélie Lacroix find themselves in their lover’s arms in the back alleyways of King’s Row.

It is a chance meeting, but one that Amélie is certain of. This is the woman that she has been searching for. And at first glance, she feels the same twinge that she has been unconsciously repressing all this time.

They meet, one night, by way of Widowmaker swinging down to grab her off of the ledge of an old building on King’s Row. Tracer doesn’t stand a chance, being completely unaware of a snipers existence in this field, on what is usually an easy enough recon mission to her. As she is swept up, she tries, desperately, to recall back in time upon feeling strong arm around her waist and wrists, but finds it impossible to with her hands held in place.

But then Tracer begins to recognize the scent, and then the grip, colder than she remembers. Lena Oxton feels her lips purse as they tremble, battling with any possible shred of hope that this woman holding her is Amélie Lacroix, before she can’t help but begin to weep.

“Amélie?!” She finally cries out just before they land roughly on top of a building.

Widowmaker didn’t really plan where to land. She had never felt this way before. If she had to guess their location amidst the gunfire echoing off the bricks below, she thinks it to be some kind of pub, near to the industrial noises of the factory’s entrance – and Lena scrambles towards the pale skin of the woman she has been so desperately searching for the past year.

At first, Widowmaker can’t understand the reaction of the small, brown-haired, spiky woman before her, beating gently on her shoulders with her fists, and steaming up her own goggles with her tears before pushing them up to her hair. But then Lena begins to ease, throwing her guns literally to the side despite Widowmaker’s appearance, with hands warmly grabbing at her face. Widowmaker feels her eyes flicker shut against her touch, and places a hand against Tracer’s.

“Amélie, is that you? Can you really be here?” she stammers through her tears. Widowmaker sits, silent and stalwart, stiffly outstretched arms around Lena Oxton, and leans down to kiss her lips.

Widowmaker is viewing this as a test to herself, but inside, the love Amélie feels is screaming. The two recognize that Lena Oxton is the one that they love.

Their first kiss in months is difficult. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it is difficult emotionally.

They kiss for a long time, and neither feels no urge to remove herself from the situation.

They initially kiss hard, and a little clumsily at first. Lena’s desperation, Widowmaker’s nonchalance at being kissed; but eventually their lips soften, softening into a noticeably familiar rhythm, with Lena’s arms wrapping around her neck, and Widowmaker feels that her own legs are still scrambled beneath her in a squashed, semi-comfortable position, but she doesn’t really care about that.

Lena’s lips against her own feels almost like coming home, and even though Lena knows something isn’t right, to her, Amélie is here, and she’s kissing her, and that’s all that matters in these moments.

Widowmaker loses herself for the first time in months to the comfort; allowing the smallest part of Amélie Lacroix to take over, to beg wordlessly with her kisses and her touches for Tracer to please, _please_ rescue her, please, god, get her out of this shell.

The moment she realizes that Amélie is beginning to take over, Widowmaker shoves Lena off in almost a defensive reflex.

“Amélie?!” Tracer asks in a blinking surprise, lips still pouted from a sudden removal of a kiss, before softening her gaze into one of a sad confusion. Widowmaker looks down at her own hands in contempt; she allowed herself to compromise the mission for her own personal beliefs. Her head is pounding.

“I…” she mumbles, her voice cracking a little, and she gasps at herself for allowing this kind of emotion to seep through.

Lena also gasps in turn at hearing her voice; if only for one syllable; and before she realizes it, Widowmaker scrambles to her feet, runs to the edge of the building, hooks herself to the furthest place her grapple can reach, and before Tracer can call out again, she is gone.

That first reunion was two years ago.

During the time between then and now, they slept together only twice, but have fucked many more times than that. Tracer and Widowmaker might be enemies on paper, but Amélie and Lena were devoted lovers. Every time Widowmaker swung around to wherever Tracer was stationed, it was a silent, unspoken, deeply intense liaison.

Lena never knew where Widowmaker was. She was always found. Gibraltar, Dorado, King's Row; sometimes it took weeks, but Tracer always allowed herself to be found. She longed for it with every moment that passed.

When they would meet, the intensity would hit like a ton of bricks.

"...Hello." Lena would stammer out, and Widowmaker would sometimes even be silent in response.

Lena would always start, and Widowmaker always worked through the headaches just to _feel_ her. It felt good, to wordlessly hold her. It was the only thing that felt good besides killing, and Widowmaker never really felt the need to stop and wonder what that said about her mental state.

They would press up against walls, against the banister of staircases, anywhere and everywhere secluded; Widowmaker often pressed against Tracer's back, reaching around her front, hand between her legs, and lips dragging against the hem of Tracer's collar.

She feels the warm, pleasant feeling of Lena’s lips against her neck, breathing shallow and loud with every stroke and rub between her thighs. Their sex is always rough, like a release of emotion, the touch they both longed for, repressed, convinced they would never feel somewhere deep in both of their subconscious, and always so loud for where they end up doing it. Widowmaker doesn’t acknowledge that the more she goes against orders that the worse her headaches get every morning.

-

Lately, Tracer isn’t around. The headaches stopped.

They haven’t been romantically together in a long time – months, at least. Widowmaker begins to wonder if perhaps Lena Oxton got tired of consistently being made to miss the woman that she fell in love with so long ago.

The target for today was a woman known as Emily Ackerly; a groundbreaking scientist who worked for Overwatch, and particularly closely with Lena Oxton. She had been recognized for her work with genetic breakthroughs and DNA, and was able to help decipher dangerous viruses, diseases and other dangers to the human body. Naturally, this was a hindrance for Talon; and Talon did not do well with hindrances. 

Upon hearing the news of the target, Widowmaker was less than thrilled to say the least, but still did her best to not show such a feeling to her superiors.

So that was why Lena Oxton had been slipping in and out of their meetings for almost a year. It didn’t take a genius to work out that those two were romantically involved from those case notes, if it was so strong of a point that it was worth mentioning. She bit at the inside of her cheek so hard that she soon felt the drip of bronze in her blood against her tongue. 

 _I'll kill her_ , thought Widowmaker. _I'll kill her._

She travelled with Reaper all the way to King's Row with that thought swirling in her mind. The brainwashed version of Amélie Lacroix, the murderous machine that Talon had perfected, the sheer pleasure she got from her finest kills; surely this would be no different. This kill, if anything, would be glorious. Lena Oxton would be unable to think of anything besides her, besides all their memories that Widowmaker couldn't grasp, all the things that she could give her that Emily couldn't, and would never be able to, all of this emotion wrapped up in one tiny bullet - it would be a sight to behold more than any other. Widowmaker was certain of that...one way or another.

But there was one fatal flaw in the plan.

Widowmaker was not expecting her finger to be trembling over the familiar feeling of her sniper rifle's trigger.

Reaper was stood behind her, looking away with his arms crossed, skulking around in the shadows.

"Let's make this quick." he mumbled, and Widowmaker wordlessly agreed.

The view of Lena Oxton's apartment was crystal clear from this angle. She could see everything, in so many ways, and unexpectedly began to feel tiny twinges of anger over what she had lost. The lost future that had fallen into the hands of another woman.

Her amber eyes steadied themselves. She took a breath into her faintly beating heart. The headache was already coming back.  

"This is ridiculous," she mumbled under her breath, and placed the scope's lens to her eye. "Time to end this."

That should have been the end of it. It should have been. It had every single reason to be, for Widowmaker. All of the times that she knew Emily and Tracer probably made love on the couch they were sat on, all the shows they watched together, the laughter they shared; it all left such a bad taste in her mouth. 

But whilst Widowmaker was desperate to pull the trigger, one thing stood in her way. A ghost of a life lost.

Amélie Lacroix could not bear to rid Lena Oxton of her newfound happiness. 

Tracer...Lena Oxton looked so _happy_. Happier than Widowmaker had ever recalled seeing her. Lena was sat on Emily's lap, her arms wrapped around her neck, and a smile from ear to ear against her cheek. Widowmaker felt her amber eyes fall to the ground. It didn't take long for her sniper rifle to follow. 

"Hm...?" Reaper murmured from behind, noticing the clatter of the rifle against the rooftop. "Hm. That's not like you to not make the shot, Widowmaker."

"...Oui."

"Come on, let's just off the redhead. You've made this shot a million times before."

Luckily for the two Lacroix buried in one uncomfortable shell, not assassinating Emily Ackerly would soon prove to be the greatest failure that they had ever not seen through; even if it pained Widowmaker to walk away from an easy shot in the November winter. 

She had never made _this_ shot - and she never would.

_"I can't do it."_


End file.
